Dear Ava

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

How did I get here? Twisting my head, I see the embers of a low bonfire glowing several yards away in a mostly open meadow. Images dance in my head—me at the fire, laughing, dancing, drinking— I inhale a sharp breath as another memory pierces, and I kick it down. Just not ready. My hands clench the dirt and damp leaves underneath me. My clothes are dirty. At least I didn’t wear my red and white cheer outfit. No, I had time to change into a mini skirt and a new blue tank top with scalloped lace at the top, “the perfect match for my eyes,” Piper had said even as she told me not to—what? What did she tell me not to do? More pain spirals in my head, and I wince, swallowing convulsively to pull moisture into my dry mouth. I focus on that meadow. Before I was in the woods, there was a party there, the Friday night kegger after the football game. Yes. At one point, people and music and cars encircled this meadow. Guys still in jerseys, some in jeans and preppy shirts, pretty girls decked out in expensive clothes I can’t afford, jewelry and shoes I’ll never have… It’s empty now. I lick dry, chapped lips when my stomach swirls. Bile curls in my gut. I’m not sure how my addled brain knows poison lies somewhere within me, but it does, and my body wants to eject it.